taxonomites | Entries tagged with { petrana

deadmanbrucolac.livejournal.com

He stays out of Wilde, more or less, but not completely: he considers no district in this city closed to him, unwelcome though he may be in certain specific locations. Every now and then, in the hours before dawn when it is too late to begin a new enterprise, he would walk in and around the Hedge Maze, thinking. (The false sun didn't burn him, but he found that the it still made him drowsy, and he was not so comfortable here that he would walk around, light-bleached and addled, an easy target.)

Though Petrana's existance and estate were no small part of some of his current frustration, she herself did not feature much in his thoughts. When someone dear to you rides away to seek his fate on a swift horse, you don't really think about the horse.

magicalskeptic.livejournal.com

Morgana has sets two goals for her mid-afternoon trip. In a small pocket in her traveling cloak, is her tablet. While she hasn't left any word as to her goals, or her destination with Arthur, she can be contacted. She also carries a small dagger. It's not that she intends to use it, more that where she's going, it makes some sense to have something with her.

The first goal is answer the two questions posed to her by a certain she's-not-sure-he's-really-a Greek god. Fortunately, Hermes's altar is on the edge of the Taxon Forest, her ultimate destination.

Finding the altar at the crossroads is not difficult. It's not the intimidating structures of the new religion, but it does look like someone is taking care of the grounds. Placing her letter in the bowl sitting in front, Morgana hopes this is the correct method of delivery, as she knows of no other way to get in contact with her odd provider of baked goods. She says nothing, and offers no other sign of devotion.

The second goal is much more enjoyable. She's off to search for potential decorations, and for a medieval lady, that means a trip to Taxon's Forest.

The first curiosity of the forest is near the waterfall, is the small collection of buildings. It looks as if someone might live there, but Morgana would never consider intruding. An unannounced arrival, considering she does not know who lives within, would not be appropriate, save in dire emergencies, but -- there are clearly flowers in the house of glass. While she may not intrude too closely, there is definitely some intense staring going on. This medieval lady loves beautiful flora.

Further along, she spots what she was hoping to find, hawthorn trees. Well, these would better be defined as large shrubs, but several look like they're going to flower early, just in time for when Morgana would need decorations the Royal Chambers. Using her dagger, she cuts off a small piece; the cut neat, instead of ragged. The leaves are out, and the flowers just budding. She tucks it in the clasp of her cloak.

[OOC: open to anyone and everyone, just be sure to indicate where you're finding her.]

rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com

The Doctor has to start working eventually. And while nobody hates the idea of working quite like the Doctor hates working, he hates the idea of being back in prison even more than that.

So, behold the Doctor, carrying things from a replication unit to the square where he's working on his next project. At present, the things he's creating are three-foot pieces of metal. He's spitting out a few at a time, and then moving them to a large pile where he has more already stacked up.

There's also a series of papers he's had made up sitting not far off from the stacks of sheet metal. They read: MISSING: ONE SONIC SCREWDRIVER. HONESTLY, NOW, STEALING ISN'T RIGHT AT ALL, IS IT?

Oh, he's also got a plate of pink-frosted cupcakes. A Time Lord's gotta eat, y'all.

ipseite

As she stirs, it's almost immediately clear to Petrana that she isn't where she belongs. This is not Riva, nor any of the bedchambers she's most accustomed to occupying there or elsewhere. She considers this new development in her situation with slightly more tranquility than might be expected of her, her hands folded on her stomach as she regards the stone ceiling above. The architecture is familiar in form if not specifics - indeed so is the style of the decor, and the robe (draped upon an armchair) that she thinks she might've once had something very like. She considers and dismisses that she's in Eosia again; it looks right, but it feels wrong. There's an obscure comfort in assuring herself there's no way she could be (home) there.

The silver bracelet is another concern, though, and she tackles it for a bit while she explores the rooms on quiet feet, giving up only when distracted by yet another little mystery in the form of the Countess's tablet. Unaware that in mastering its use she's broadcasting herself in turn, Petrana perches on the settee in that thin robe, one foot tucked underneath the other knee, and frowns at the screen as she watches the network and navigates the tablet's interface instead of paying any attention to the idea of sending a message of her own.

For anyone who pauses to see her accidental broadcast, they may be slightly puzzled by the picture they're presented with. While the Countess might pass for somewhere in her thirties, this woman makes it apparent she did actually look a bit younger at that time in her life, and her hair is so much longer when it's loose than her habit of never wearing it down lets on. The contrast of confidence and uncertainty that marks the Countess's endeavours, cautiously navigating what she terms 'men's affairs'- there's only sharp self-assurance in her slimmer twin's narrow eyes, pursing her lips to the side and at one point turning the tablet upside down. Her hands, picking at the tablet, bear no wedding ring- just a remarkable sapphire on her right hand. The mourning locket isn't at her throat but she's found it already and it rests on her knee while she puts off opening it to see what's inside.

Of course, the most obvious, visible difference (besides the lack of the Countess's recent injuries) is the jagged scar running from her cheekbone, near her eye, down to her jawline- and how her accent isn't quite the same, flatter somehow, as she murmurs ruefully, "Well, I didn't have to die this time, that's some small mercy."

[ petra's alternate reality glitch begins! ]

glowingseer.livejournal.com

It's probably an unwritten law somewhere in the universe that just when everything seems peaceful and perfect, the universe finds some indecent way to screw this up.

When Cordelia woke up this morning, everything appears to be peachy-keen. She grabs her tablet and sets it up, about to message Angel and ask him if he was still brooding. She's staying in her room at the Hyperion Hotel, but chooses to check up on him with the device - after all, if it seems like he needs to be alone, then she won't be intruding into his much needed 'sitting-in-the-darkness-by-his-lonesome time'. Of course, this doesn't go according to plan. Just when she was a few clicks away from locking the entry to him, her world literally shifts and she ends up dropping the tablet altogether, treating Taxon to a very pleasant view of her... foot.

This image doesn't last long, as the next shot reveals a bunch of swirling lights and a sound similar to ringing bells.

"Oooh, what's this?" A hand reaches for the tablet, and now Taxon can see a woman who looks almost exactly like Cordelia smiling widely at the gadget. "It's so... shiny!"

[ ooc: cordelia's kyra glitch begins! also if you're okay with your character getting 'read' then just tell me :D ]

aintnoconvict

[Later on the same day that all of this happened, the following broadcast went out from Shane Hayes' tablet.]

Hello, this is Glitch. [Shakey sigh here.] Our captors have decided to...it's...DG isn't DG anymore, they've turned her into the Sorceress from my world. S-so that's why there's a big creepy tower where my home used to be and and those guys with black coats patroling around.

She's powerful, she's dangerous, but if you avoid her you should be all right, she's probably most worried about tracking me down. Again. [He laughed bitterly.] Hopeuflly this'll all be over soon, meanwhile I'm gonna be laying low. Watch out for monkey bats.

[ooc: thanks to Ace for tablet-commandeering ♥ ]

ipseite

Since her attack the Countess has been scarce, leaving her tablet locked in a drawer and accepting no visitors save the necessary. While she's still obliged to be careful - a shoulder injury like hers can take a long time to heal, and she's not as young and hardy as she used to be - she is now up and about again, albeit dressed far lighter as a concession to her range of motion. Naturally this means it's time to reacquaint herself with having company other than Jack or Doul.

In a brilliant display of multitasking, one of Petra's maids is holding the tablet obligingly for her mistress while the lady of the castle sits on the edge of a settee, Jack's dog Abby in front of her knees while she tries on first one collar and then another (studded, jewelled, plain leather, different jewels- it's safe to say that the Countess has experience in spoiling dogs). She does pause and look up when the maid signals that they're recording, and sets the collar in her hand aside to keep Abby amused with petting while she speaks.

"I'd merely like to briefly thank my well-wishers; Master Doul and the Colonel very thoughtfully passed those messages on to me and I did appreciate that. And- Dr Yilmaz, I have something I'd like to discuss with you, quite unconnected to our previous business."

She briefly considers whether or not she should say anything about Professor Snape's apparent disappearance, but it seems to be another Taxon coming and going of the depressingly usual sort and she's not sure that there's anyone else it'd concern.

Ultimately, she leaves it at that.

oneofthequick.livejournal.com

During his off-hours, Uther Doul avoids the inexplicable eggs in town and makes the rounds to visit a few people and drop off a small gift. Odds are, if Doul enjoys the company of someone or has social obligations to them, then he will be by with a little paper-wrapped parcel for them.

Not all of the offerings are hand-delivered: the Brucolac's parcel is sent by Taxon Post, or whatever passes for the mail service in this place, and Judith's is left at the edge of her territory.

magicalskeptic.livejournal.com

( She has her reasons )

( [Visual: to Arthur] )

( [Location: Wayne Manor (outside Enfys's room)] )

( [Text: Countess Petrana] )

( [Location: Wayne Manor, wherever Bruce is skulking about] )

( [Location: Wayne Manor *knock* Penny *knock* Penny *knock* Penny )

( And finally )

[ooc: timeline is immediately following the house party plot, and before this post.]

freezecharm.livejournal.com

Piper awoke with a start. She didn't know exactly what alerted her, but when she opened her eyes she found herself in an unfamiliar room. For a few seconds Piper stayed absolutely still, even shut her eyes – after all, she just might be dreaming, or hallucinating, or both.

Soon she found out she wasn't.

She crawled out of the sleeping bag and slowly made her way out of the room. Piper was sure as hell she didn't sleepwalk – her sisters would have informed her long ago if she did. So how come she woke up in a very strange house? And without her tablet? How ironic was it that when she needed the blasted thing, it was nowhere to be found?

The place itself was making her feel very nervous and uncomfortable. It seemed like she woke up in a... a brothel of some sort. Oh, lord. Did that mean...?

“If this is someone's idea of a sick joke – it's not funny.”

oneofthequick.livejournal.com

"Those of you who are acquainted with the vampire Angelus assured both myself, and Taxon at large, that he would be too preoccupied with harming you to care for anyone else." His voice is as clear as ever, but his tone conveys just how displeased he is with the general incompetence of those who had attempted to convince him that the problem could remain a personal matter. "You swore that he would be dealt with quickly and humanely and that there was no need for others to do anything but trust in your skill."

"You have been proven wrong and another has paid for your arrogance."

"How do you intend to redress this?"

ipseite

The past weeks have been- well, they've certainly been, haven't they. Petra's spent much of her time at work with one thing or the other, but it was with no small amount of relief that she left the direct handling of their prisoner in the hands of Jack Benjamin; certainly she's still holding his leash, but she's very interested to see how the young man in question handles authority. And, of course, it reduces the necessity of Petra's own direct contact with the Doctor - she'd like very much to help him, so far as she can, but that might be more difficult if she found herself compelled by impulse to shove the wand that she has from Professor Snape somewhere very uncomfortable.

...still, spreading tasks around (the Doctor's recent escape pinches her brows together, but Jack is handling it capably- she makes a mental note to invite Dr Yilmaz to share Master Wayne's wine at her earliest convenience) frees up some of her time, enough that she can finally make good on her promise to Lady Morgana. Speaking of Master Wayne, Petra glances at the device he gave her when they met and tucks it into a coin purse before she lets the maid lace her up and tidy her hair.

Her ventures outside the walls have remained few and far between; part of that has been the unsuitability of transport in Taxon. Without horses to drive the carriages (she's had a thought, but only a vague and half-formed one that's hardly top of her priority list), she relies on Extras bearing the palanquin that her sister-in-law was so pleased with, and without a hint of shame uses the inconvenience of traveling that way as an excuse not to do it at all. Watching the late afternoon 'bustle' of Taxon through a gap in the curtains as she crosses the city, Petra concedes to herself that it might be better if she tried a little harder. At least Master Wayne's home looks unobjectionable, as she approaches it- actually, she quite approves, and continues to do so after she arrives, expected, and Master Wayne sees her up to Morgana's room.

"My dear girl," she greets her, smiling, once they're alone with the one Extra who came in with her waiting outside the door with her cloak.

ipseite

The day following Petra's announcements on the network finds her in roughly the same place with a somewhat more certain sense of purpose. The acting council may still be just an idea, but it's an idea that's gaining support and movement - they can work with that. Judith's idea of elections sent her into the stacks of Gatas's library, digging out texts on the selection of Genidian Preceptors and the logistics of electing an Archprelate; she spreads them out on a table with her notes and her lists of names and volunteers.

It does feel much, much better to be working with the knowledge that she does, in fact, have support to call on - with the Doctor, with the notion of building a council she expects not to sit on, and personally if she so requires. Doul's employment is one weight off her mind.

Since it seems likely as not that her stream of visitors in and out hasn't ended, she keeps her tablet close to her while she attempts to familiarize herself with how elections work (she may not have had cause to know before, but she does now and she's determined to prove a quick study). Admittedly one of her first notes after an essay on the elections of Sarathi is simplify, simplify, simplify, we have no bureaucrats to appease - but there aren't any churchmen here for her to offend with her critique of their system.

[ hellooo! this is mostly for slow-thread with fred, but if anyone else needs the countess ... have at, just remember to call ahead. ]

ipseite

"Good morning, Taxon." Crisp British diction and smooth French enunciation and it must be the Countess of Gatas, sober in dark, deep blue and holding a china teacup in both hands as she sits down at her husband's desk, dwarfed by the masculine surroundings designed for a man much, much larger than she is but soothed by the authority of it.

Some few days have passed since the bomb threat, and as the city returns to an equilibrium it seems to her eye that there's no time to waste. She sips her tea as she briefly scans the notes she's had transcribed, and then begins. "My name is Lady Petrana, and I am the Countess of Gatas. The Doctor is presently incarcerated in the Alcione dungeons of my home. We have been poorly organized here in the city, and to my eye we're now paying for it. First of all I propose that those of you most closely involved with the capture of the Doctor meet with me here at Gatas; I am his jailer and I'd appreciate being kept aware of how we will continue to handle this matter. Some of you may have seen the gates of Gatas open in the past- they are now closed. They will remain so. Visitors who are not expected will not be permitted within the grounds without a very good reason until such time as I am no longer acting as prison mistress."

A beat passes; Petra takes another sip of tea.

"A committee of some sort seems to be our best - if not our only - option, but to begin with it may be easiest to meet with those involved in smaller groups. I greatly, greatly admire how well we've all pulled together for this, but with so many involved we'll be better served having some sense of organization before we attempt to wargame the situation."

In closing, Petra looks directly at the tablet and smiles radiantly. "I am so proud of you all. The feats of bravery, kindness and keen intellect on that day are well worthy of the knights that I have given my loyalty and love; I can pay no higher compliment. Thank you."

rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com

There are very few things in the world the Doctor despises more than being trapped. It's actually quite a short list. 1) Burned toast. Terrible thing, burned toast, and it makes everything horrible. 2) Bus stations. He despises them possibly more than any other place in the universe. 3) Death. He doesn't hate death, he's just really quite terrified of it. Next on that list is Celine Dion's music, the Tereleptian cluster, and pretty much anything that airs on BBC Three. Then: Being Trapped. With a capital B and T, because it's a very significant day in the Doctor's life where he's not only trapped, but he's trapped with no real means of escape.

Right now, it appears that he's not only trapped without means of escape in Taxon, he's trapped without means of escape in a cell in Taxon. The length of time here, he's not even certain. The Taxon captors never spoke to him, the stupid humans in this city got themselves in the way of his traps, and now he's been incarcerated. And, if he's reading the people around him well, it's possibly for his own good that he's in here and protected rather than out there and being assaulted. Still! He'd prefer to at least know some sort of legal system was taking care of him.

He misses the TARDIS. He misses being able to just leave when he wants. He's trapped here, now. He has to face the consequences of his actions.

Present consequences: Being in this cell. The cell is small, stone-walled with a tiny, smelly cot. It appears that the room has been cleaned recently, though it's by no means pristine. The Doctor appreciates the cleanliness, though, as he's been in significantly filthier dungeon cells in his time. A small line of sunlight comes from the window high up in the cell, but he can't even see the false Taxon sky if he cranes his head.

The Doctor, despite hating his current place of residence, is actually being quite good. He's curled himself up on the cot, tying little Jacob's ladders in a long bit of twine he's pulled from the cot. He's neither fighting nor attempting to run. Yet.

knightflown.livejournal.com

There's a bit of a suggestion of bustle in the background as Nightwing heads outside of the Sanctuary, masked face serious (or... probably serious, the mask makes it hard to tell) as he looks into the tablet. His voice is actually different from Dick's, authoritative and formal, though not without a hint of potential sass.

"We're looking for a safe, secure place to store 'the Doctor', the guy responsible for the bombs. Any thoughts? Please," he adds as an afterthought, "nothing like 'an icebox' or 'six feet under'. Some guards would be good, too."

azurehalo.livejournal.com

"Hi Taxon!" Elena greets her tablet brightly, her hair clipped back and her make-up neatly done, some time around noon. The cabin fever of her self-(and Stefan-)imposed confinement has finally become too much to deal with, and after minutes of agonizing she's decided to go forward with a certain plan.

"I know things lately have been difficult and scary for everyone, and I know that I, personally, would like to spend five or ten minutes not thinking about it, so I decided to reintroduce myself. Some of you may already know this, but I'm Elena Gilbert, seventeen-year-old from Earth, and I promise I've decided not to burn anything down that doesn't deserve it." She laughs, still slightly embarrassed by...that series of incidents, yes. "I'd also like to introduce my house, because for once the powers that be have actually done something good and I'm going to ignore the implications of that, too, just because I really cannot deal with freaking out every single minute." ( but i believe i'm worth coming home to. )

saintsanguine.livejournal.com

So, Taxon! Stefan doesn't think you've heard enough about vampires lately. To be fair, he was as surprised as all of you to find out the place was ~*infested*~ with them, and he is in fact part of the infestation, ergo: questions. To ask these, he is seated in a small, bright kitchen, at one of them there barstools, which means most of what is visible is the counter, Stefan's arms folded neatly across it in front of him. Marvel.

Right, that accomplished, let us move on. ( and the static singes the speakers like a thousand hymns of inspiration. the road just winds through the canyon like a big black snake headed for salvation )

ipseite

Days after the Valentine's Ball, and Petrana has set aside her showier jewels with a certain amount of relief; the grey-clad lady who settles herself in front of the tablet for her latest request and/or invitation to the general public of Taxon is back to no more adornments than her usual jet and wedding band. She is precise and pristine and probably not going to stay that way, since judging by the well-lit art studio behind her, today is a working day.

(For a given value of 'no one has ever paid Petrana for a portrait in her life'.)

"I would like to make arrangements for portrait sittings," she declares, matter of factly, into the ether of Taxon's communication system. "I've been thinking for some time of doing so, and Master Langwe has recently raised an interesting point on the subject. It is a worthwhile endeavour to have some manner of record of who comes and goes here, and ... I suppose that I'm volunteering myself to take an interest. Of course I can't require that anyone sit for me, and it will take me quite some time to get through everyone if you all do, but...if you are interested, I am Lady Petrana, Countess at Gatas Castle, and appointments with me can be made through my servants if need be."

The Extras can be taught to take orders, she's discovered, and they serve their purposes well enough.

She pauses, tapping her fingers against the table, and then adds, "Some of you may anticipate a personal invitation."

Satisfied, she leaves it at that.

mightyfallen.livejournal.com

When he closes his eyes, it's to the sound of bombs falling and his father whispering el maleh rahamim to a cloud-washed sky while the last of his men--their men--fall back around them. There's a frightening sickness of despair in his father's voice, something Jack has never heard from him, this lion of a man who used to bring mountains to their knees with a look. Jack wants to tell him this is right. They're paving the way for something better, something purer than either of them could hope to become. But there's too much blood in his lungs for words to find purchase; it's all he can do to exhale.

When he opens his eyes again, it's silent.

"This isn't heaven," he murmurs on reflex, but he knows there's truth to the words as soon as they're spoken. It's too cold, too empty in a way he can't name but nags on him like a missing limb all the same. "No, I suppose that would be too much to ask." He laughs like choking, his hands clawing back through his hair, then moving in twisted disbelief to his chest. Mere moments before, he felt his ribs riddled with shrapnel, but beneath the ragged, blood-soaked shirt, the flesh is whole. Scarred, but whole. He breathes. He's alive.

And a captive.

How long has he been out? It would take weeks, months to heal wounds like that--if he healed at all, why does he feel so sure he didn't?--yet somehow the blood is still wet, and there's something fused to his arm-- Deep breaths. He's been chipped before and has the scars to prove it, but that wristband isn't going anywhere and he can't afford to lose an arm right now. It'll have to wait. His breath is still shaking, but his hands are steady as he pulls out his sidearm and steps down from the platform. If he's been captured but not disarmed, of all things, he must assume Gath wants him to escape, as if he's stupid enough to lead them anywhere they want to go. He isn't, but that doesn't mean he won't start looking for an exit.

Which is when he sees--and nearly shoots--the goddamn dog, just chilling in the corner wagging her tail as if this moment wasn't surreal enough already. Huffing in something between frustration and relief, he snaps his fingers at the furry monstrosity until she decides to heel and keeps her close while he tries to find a way out. There's nothing.

Except the tablet. He picks it up; the door opens. He sets it down again; the door closes. Ever-so-slowly, his fingers curl into fists in an attempt to keep from hurling it across the room.

"As if I need to carry yet another completely fucking obvious tracking device on my person to know you're watching my every move, Shaw. I am not your plaything. Either kill me here or return me to my king, because I will not help you harm a hair on his head."